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My husband took this photo because he liked the shadow of one building on another. He was, however, vexed by the reflection of the lights from his office in the photo until I told him those reflections form artificial clouds. I think they’re perfect. It’s all about shifting your perspective.

People are prodigious purveyors of the best advice, which they themselves never follow. I have a gift for envisioning paths and solutions for others. When it comes to my own life, however, I have difficulty zooming out far enough to formulate a plan. I am so hyper focused on the micro that I don’t even recognize there is a macro point from which to view the entire dilemma. My successes have been achieved through a series of fits and starts over years of time spent haphazardly careening in the general direction of something in which I had interest. Then, when I finally reach a goal in this meandering and sloppy way, I complain about how much time I wasted getting there. Eye roll.

Negative thought is the constant rabbit in my garden, nibbling the buds of potential while I struggle to pull up weeds. And the curse of negativity is that it works the same way as positivity. What you focus on expands. So if I focus on the rabbit (as I’ve been trained to do) as it wends its way through the sprouts I’ve been striving to cultivate, more rabbits materialize. Cute, furry, reproductive little bastards they are. And when I become obsessed with their presence, they take over completely and I am left standing there on barren ground, wondering what the hell happened. There have been periods of my life when I’ve battled against negativity akin to the Rabbit of Caerbannog.

It has gone this way for me for a long time. Only recently have I gained enough ground to make progress against the rabbits. I’ve learned to notice them increasing in number and then plant some marigolds and install chicken-wire screens to dissuade them. I recently added a border collie to shoo the most stalwart rabbits away. Sometimes the border collie snoozes and a couple sneak in, but when she finally gets after them she pursues them with a renewed fervor that makes them far more cautious and less attracted to the garden. And, in this way, the potential that was always there for me is beginning to flourish. It’s Secret Garden-level brilliant too.

I spent a lot of time cursing the rabbits in my garden. It never helped. The more I railed against them, the more damage they inflicted. But when I shifted my frame of reference away from them and onto the potential I wanted to nurture and protect, I began to make headway where it most mattered to me. Instead of wasting time complaining and being fearful of stunted growth, I moved the frame away and onto protecting what mattered. I began to find solutions. When I stopped fighting against the negativity and started fighting for my growth and my dreams, my life changed. Fighting for wields more power than fighting against ever will.

There will always be rabbits. They will creep back into the yard. It’s inevitable. But I’m learning look at them differently, to take my large portrait frame, step back and shift it in a way that I see how a long-eared, fluffy bunny hopping around a safely protected, well-tended garden is not a problem at all. It’s a representation of life in balance.

Where can you move your frame so it holds the most positive, life-affirming tableau you can imagine, the one that will feed your soul?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had paralyzing self-doubt. Some people doubt their beauty. Some people doubt their intelligence. Some people doubt their athleticism or their math capabilities or their decision-making skills. I doubted the entirety of my self-worth. When others would point out my positives, their words might have well as been Sanskrit. I was unable to process their praise, much less accept it. I would deflect with self-deprecation, never responding with a simple “thank you” because I couldn’t own it. Still, those kind words, repeatedly offered, planted seeds. They gave me permission to entertain, at least briefly, the modest notion that maybe I was more than I felt I was.

Since the beginning of January, I’ve been considering a party to celebrate my 50th birthday next month. But, every time I would think about it, I would determine it wasn’t worth the money. Or I’d create a guest list only to decide no one would forgo their Memorial Day weekend plans to celebrate with me. I stressed about choosing a place where my vegetarian, gluten free, dairy free, beer connoisseur, and junk-food junkie friends alike could eat. I worried people wouldn’t find parking. I borrowed all manner of trouble looking out for other people, while the number of excuses I invented to avoid looking out for myself was macabre. My potential birthday party morphed into a monstrous, self-imposed migraine, and I decided perhaps it wasn’t worth marking the occasion at all.

I mentioned this during my weekly mental health session on Monday. My therapist, knowing the only way out is through and the only way through requires action, decided I needed to plan this event. The exercise in putting myself first, in believing I mattered enough to selfishly devise an entire day around my own likes and wishes without considering what others would choose, would be excellent skill-building practice. As I sat in her office pondering my preferences, it hit me. I had no idea substantive idea what I love. I had no clear preferences. It’s a blindspot I developed over a lifetime of never feeling worth the effort of asserting myself. My default has been to allow other people to choose where we eat or what we do or where we travel or when we go. I learned early on that anything I wanted was silly and wrong, not to mention undeserved. So I let others take the lead because I lacked the clout to choose. I was never in the driver’s seat, only along for the ride. By asking me to uncover my preferences, she handed me a permission slip, carte blanche to put my hands on my hips and declare, “It’s my birthday and I can do whatever I want and if others don’t like it or feel inconvenienced then they can stay home and miss out.” I didn’t have to feel guilty about it, either. It was a required assignment. Insecure rule followers are comfortable being told what to do. It’s safe.

Because I wasn’t sure what I wanted, I concentrated on what I didn’t want. My aversions, unlike my preferences, are clear cut. I didn’t want to go to a baseball game. I didn’t want to eat sushi or pasta. I didn’t want to cook or bartend for others. I didn’t want to invite people out of a sense of obligation or guilt. I didn’t want to stress small details. I did not want negative people, no matter long we’ve known each other, involved at all. I did not want a party where people bring black balloons and Depends to suggest I’m at the precipice of death. Little by little, through the process of elimination, my mind was freed to discover what I did want. I was able to create a game plan that felt life-affirming, fun, adventurous, memorable, and empowering.

And since it was my birthday and I could do what I wanted, I decided to rebrand it. So, I am not having a 50th birthday party. I’m having a twenty-four hour Re-Birth Day. I know I don’t want to operate my next 50 years through the same rubric. I’ve been slogging through a quagmire of issues that have plagued me since childhood and, thanks to my insightful and supportive therapist, every day I feel better about myself, more confident, less willing to deal with bullshit and naysayers and energy suckers. This is where I start owning my life rather than letting others direct it. This is where I begin self-advocation. This is my damn story. I deserve to tell it without someone else’s narration. I no longer need an advisory board. It no longer serves me.

My 48th birthday…when I didn’t even believe I deserved a chair

With these things in mind, I’m approaching the next seven weeks as a growth quest. I know I won’t be able to return all my demons to the Upside Down before my birthday, but I might be able to sequester the remaining troublemakers in a soundproof cage long enough to create a better headspace for taking positive action for myself. Initially, I needed someone else to hand me a signed permission slip to look out for myself. It was a jumping off point, and you have to start somewhere. I accept that…for now. With a little practice, I’m sure that by this time next year I’ll be writing all the permission slips I need. The year after that, maybe I won’t need any at all.

I am an introvert. This is a well-documented, incontrovertible fact. For years, I have used my status as introvert to avoid uncomfortable social situations because, well, they’re uncomfortable. This is because I am the most awkward woman who has ever lived. I am certain of this. You only think you are more awkward than I am. You are wrong. Through therapy, I have been working to overcome some of the self-imposed boundaries that have arisen because of my social ineptitude. You see, through my claim to the title Almighty Queen of Awkwardness I claimed a second, slightly lower title, the Self-Ordained Princess of Seemingly Legitimate Excuses by which to Avoid Entanglements. My titles are cumbersome in more ways than one.

One place I have decided to work on for my personal growth is at our sons’ school. The boys have been at Denver Academy nearly two full years now. In that time, we have met and spoken more than once with only two other sets of parents. Two. In two years. This is what happens when an introvert marries another introvert. The only reason we have two as our number is because these parents reached out to us. Otherwise, we would be sitting at zero new acquaintances.

Last Friday, the school held a fundraiser, a ping-pong tournament dubbed The Paddle Battle. We attended this last year with friends because we didn’t want to show up alone. During the ping-pong battle, my friend, Lynne, and I huddled in a corner near the lost-and-found box swilling wine. She was courageous enough to talk to another family. Meanwhile, I held my plastic wine cup like it was anchoring me to earth while I avoided eye contact by staring into the box of found hoodies, water bottles, and a lonely shoe. This year I decided to challenge myself by actively participating in the actual playing of the ping pong.

With a glass of wine consumed, I met my opponent and stepped up to the table. I worked hard to avoid complete decimation. A couple times during the game play, I attempted to start a conversation with the gentleman, only to be met with no response. I realized eventually he couldn’t hear me over the noise in the atrium and decided to be okay with the fact that I was talking across a table to a person who had no idea was talking. Nothing awkward about that. Meanwhile, I continued my nervous, audible-only-to-myself chatter the entire game as I chased the ball. The game ended with my five-point loss, a respectable showing for someone without table-tennis prowess. The gentleman approached me for a sportsmanlike handshake. I was holding the ball in my right hand and, for some inexplicable reason, instead of moving the ball to my left hand for a proper handshake, I extended my left hand. This led to a generally weird situation in which neither one of us knew the protocol. He at last grabbed my left hand for a cursory shake while I mumbled something about needing to put the ball somewhere safe for the next players. As he walked off to put his name in for the next round, I imagined he was looking forward to playing someone more athletically skillful and socially adept. I did a mental face palm for being such a colossal dork and went for another glass of wine to console myself.

While some battle, some execute a normal handshake

Being a classic overthinker, I’ve reflected on that evening a few times since Friday night, endeavoring to convince myself that perhaps I didn’t come off as a complete moron. After all, every person feels awkward occasionally. It’s a universally human experience. Most of us spend at least some time second guessing words we’ve uttered or actions we’ve taken when we’ve felt out of our element. It’s possible my opponent found my handshake foible more charming than ridiculous or might not have registered it at all. And, in the end, why does it matter when I improved upon my actions from last year by stepping out of my boundaries and participating rather than spectating? Get over yourself.

I am working hard to bring balance to the Force in my life by acknowledging that while I have a few less-than-impressive qualities, my good qualities are weightier. Last Friday, I took a step forward. Maybe the experience wasn’t as smooth as I had expected, but that’s okay. Baby steps, right? When Luke graduates in 2022 and throws off the confines of high school, I might too graduate, at last setting aside my mantle as Almighty Queen of Awkwardness for a more appropriate title. Maybe by then I will know myself only as the Almighty Queen of Awesomeness. If I’m going to envision myself as queen, perhaps it should be as the queen of something great.

It’s Valentine’s Day, the one day of the year when expectations of all ilks band together to form a super group of disappointment. You might recognize some of their greatest Country hits.

How Could You Not Know

Lingerie…the Gift for You That’s Really For Me

Ended up at Chili’s in my Best Dress and Pearls

Don’t Give Me Chocolate and Complain that I’m Fat

I Paid For Lobster and Got Cold Fish

My Dog Loves Me More Than You Do

Stalled in the Friend Zone

Valentine’s Day Threesome – Me, Myself, and I

Sleeping on the Sofa Again

Traditionally, this has not been my favorite holiday because I’ve never been great with expectations. Based on something that happened last night with my son, however, I have evidence my attitude may be changing.

Him: “If I wanted to buy some flowers, what would be the best way to do that?”

Me: *silently processing* Flowers? What for? Oh shit. It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. OMG. This may be the cutest thing he’s ever said. *squeal* Act cool. Don’t let on that he’s being adorable. And, for holy lizard’s sake, don’t be patronizing. Whatever you do, do not ask who they are for. Crap. Where will we find roses in the morning before school and how early will we have to get to the store? Maybe we should go tonight. Oh man. I don’t want to drive all over town tonight. If we go quickly, maybe I can still catch the men’s half-pipe finals.

“We could hit Whole Foods after dinner if that sounds good,” I replied with my best game face, as if it were barely an issue. “Whole Foods usually has nice flowers.”

“Okay,” he said.

We geared up and drove the five minutes to the store and, being Mom and being something of an expert on expectations, I prepared him for multiple scenarios surrounding the endeavor. There could be no flowers left. There could be a million flower choices. The store might be inordinately busy. The flowers might be more expensive than he was thinking. We might have to go to a few different places. He might have to change his game plan.

He seemed not at all fazed by the prospects. He shared that some of his friends said he was crazy. Some expressed concern he would get hurt. Some said nothing because they had done something similar last year and were reserving judgment. I told him that if he was being honest about his intentions, there was no way to lose. If you act from a place of thoughtfulness without return expectation, you can’t go wrong. Giving should make you feel good, no matter where it leads. The act of giving selflessly is actually a gift for you too.

He was in luck. Whole Foods had dozens of buckets of roses. He had (quite charmingly) done his research about the meanings of rose colors and had decided against yellow. He and the recipient were already friends, so friendship roses seemed to express the obvious. He further knew that red roses were way beyond what would be proportionate to his feelings. He decided on light pink roses so she would know he admired and appreciated her. We inspected the pink rose bouquets to select the optimal bunch. I helped him pick out a small, blank card in which he would later write “Happy Valentine’s Day from your friend” to make sure she knew he simply wanted to do something nice to make her day more special. When we got home, he selected four flowers from the assortment and we put them into a vase.

This morning he was nervous, not about the gift but about the managing of the gift. Where would he put the flowers until they saw each other? How much shade would his classmates give him? How awkward was his morning going to be? What had he gotten himself into? He had no idea what to expect. I told him that was a fair place to be and wished him godspeed.

I have spent most of my life sweating the constant, crushing, considerable heft of expectations. I was raised under them and unconsciously came to regard them as a weighted blanket, a comfortable and secure place from which to operate. Only recently have I examined them more closely and accepted their truths. Expecting too much from others or yourself only causes trouble. Expecting too little from yourself or others leaves your self-esteem vulnerable. Somewhere in the middle of that see saw, around the center at the pivot point, is the best place from which to ride life’s waves. I think I will find that sweet spot eventually. For now, I am enjoying the remainder of those pink roses we purchased last night, admiring and appreciating myself for getting closer to where I hope to be.

My husband is a geek. And he is becoming more of a geek with each passing year. In the past, I would never have complained about this because, well, he’s my personal tech support. He’s the geek I go to when I’ve already rebooted and don’t know what the hell to do next. He is the one who talks me off the ledge when my phone is doing that thing again. He totally understands what an HDMI cable is. I simply understand that an HDMI cable is. He’s all about embracing new technology. And, despite the fact that our house contains several plastic bins filled with antiquated tech (my kids tell me that is the correct term) that he still hasn’t taken to the electronics graveyard, much to my chagrin, I have struggled to make my peace with his curious addiction to the latest and greatest invention meant to make life better. At least, I thought I had made my peace with it. That was until the Amazon Echo arrived in our home early in 2016.

It seemed innocuous enough. One day he came home with this curious new speaker thing. I vaguely recall being a little peeved because, as I pointed out at the time, we didn’t need another speaker thing. Because of his tech addiction, we already had four wireless music players. That’s right. Four. This one, he told me, this one was different. You could talk to this one, like you do with Siri. He prattled on for a bit about how this was not just a speaker because this could also turn our lights off and on remotely. While he spoke, I went to my happy place because when something like this catches his eye the only way to get him to stop talking about it usually is to let him have it. So I did. I rolled my eyes, sighed and, like a parent accepting the stray dog her son brought home, told him Echo could stay as long as he took care of it.

Since that night, Steve has been working with Echo to transform our house into what I assume is supposed to be a much more convenient, high-tech haven. He started by adding the special light bulbs necessary and then programming it to operate our lights, at least in the living room and hallway. Then, against my wishes, he persisted in teaching me the commands so I too could turn off our lights by barking orders across the house.

“Alexa (for that is the damned thing’s name), turn off the LIVING ROOM light.”

Emboldened by the success of having this electronic entity controlling our interior illumination, he added more bulbs in our bedroom so we could yell across the room at the thing on the dresser to turn off the lights on our nightstands, a process that takes longer than simply reaching over and turning off the lights by hand. Undaunted, he persevered with his toy. I told him that the technology creeped me out because occasionally, for no apparent reason, Alexa will start speaking, telling me about the weather or giving me some random definition for a word about which I had not inquired. It all feels a bit Big Brotherish to me. He shrugged off my negativity. This is the future. He expects me to assimilate.

Last Christmas, Steve decided our son might be an ally in the ongoing Alexa battle. So he bought a $30 Hue light strip Joe could attach to his bunkbed, presumably so he could read in bed (ha), and he bought him the smaller Echo Dot which doesn’t have its own speaker. Joe seemed semi-interested in the technology aspect until he realized that the light strip made his bed feel like the tunnel between Concourses B and C at O’Hare Airport. Then he too noticed that sometimes Alexa would start speaking out of the blue. Unbeknownst to his father, Joe unplugged the Dot and tossed it into his closet where he found it creeped him out much less.

Undeterred by his family’s lack of enthusiasm for his home automation, Steve continued in his quest. He added more light bulbs to control in his office. He added another Dot downstairs so we could use it as an “intercom” to beckon the boys upstairs when we wanted them. (Side note: It turns out we never do this because we prefer to yield to the more organic and primal habit of screaming at them from the stairs as parents have done for generations.) He programmed Echo to interact with our smart Nest thermostat so we can shriek at her to turn our heat up or down. He set Echo so now if we bellow at her she will play Sirius XM radio on our Sonos system. Most recently, he’s connected Alexa to our home security system so we can clamor for her to turn on our home alarm. Never mind that, aside from the lighting, we are able to do all these things via our iPhones without caterwauling through the house.

Last night, I caught Steve asking to Alexa to do his bidding again.

“Alexa…turn off the Living Room light,” he called out.

“Living Room doesn’t support that,” came Alexa’s reply.

Steve repeated the command more slowly and firmly, as if Alexa were a disobedient child who simply needed to be told twice.

“Alexa…turn off Living,” I said, remembering Steve had recently changed the command so it included both smart bulbs in the living room lamp.

“Okay,” she said, and the damn living room light finally went off.

“Sometimes you have to wonder just who is controlling whom,” I said and strolled smugly off to bed for the night.

Steve might have an overactive case of Jetsons envy. He longs for flying cars and homes equipped with every possible automation. And I get it. We Gen Xers are experiencing an amazing shift from our childhoods when we tuned in on one of a few channels on a cumbersome television box with a rabbit-ear antenna on top to watch George, Jane, Judy, Elroy, and Astro living in their sky home with their robot maid, Rosie, attending to their every need, to a time when home automation, or some semblance of it, is reality. It is exciting and fascinating, and it’s easy to get caught up in the Jetson fantasy in 2018. Still, my hope for the future is that the speed of advancing tech becomes so rapid that Steve is at last unable to keep up or technology becomes more efficient so I can stop commanding the black cylinder on my kitchen counter to turn off the lights that all three men in my house seem incapable of operating either on their own or with Alexa’s brilliant assistance. I am not surprised Echo was given a female name. If you want something done, you ask a woman.

This week I have been on a cruise in the eastern Caribbean with my mom and sisters to commemorate my mom’s 75th birthday. Earlier in the week, the four of us did a rum and salsa dancing tour in Puerto Rico together. The next day my sister Kathy and I snorkeled in St Thomas. For the last excursion, I did something out of my comfort zone. I chose a catamaran trip to St Kitts and Nevis alone. When I booked the excursion, it never occurred to me that I would have to interact with people. Other people whom I don’t already know. As I pondered this the night before we arrived in St Kitts, I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake.

When I got to the meeting space, I noticed everyone was part of a pair, accompanied either by a significant other, family member, or friend. I was the only solo traveler, the one who made our number an awkward odd rather than a neat even. It was all good, I told myself. As a reticent introvert, I have many coping strategies for being alone while part of a crowd. I occupied myself with photo taking, listening to headphones, and staring out at sea to avoid eye contact lest someone should view my gaze as an invitation to chit-chat. I spent most of the tour, including the snorkeling time, successfully isolated. I had no direct contact with anyone save for one of the catamaran crew members who kept checking to make sure I was all right. I rode out to the snorkel spot without conversation, swam by myself, finished lunch alone, and quietly sat on one of a pair of beach chairs under an umbrella while my bag occupied the companion seat. I focused on solitude and relished it.

On the way back, I determined I wanted to ride on the net of the catamaran. I had never done that before, and it seemed like something I should experience. So when the boat came back to pick us up at the beach, I made sure to be one of the first to board so I could secure a coveted spot. I had visions of stretching out up there with the water rushing by beneath me, eyes closed, sun on my face, relaxed and at peace. I live in a rainbow world.

I had been in place maybe one minute before a group of people whom I had earlier pegged as the party crowd descended like locusts on a harvest. Suddenly I was surrounded on all sides by peers who were 1) loud, 2) not concerned about observing my requisite two-arms-length personal space boundary, and 3) more than a few rum punches ahead of me. I was trapped at the front of the net, and the only way out would require gathering up all my belongings, stepping over people, and beating a hasty retreat to the covered part of the boat to sit with the retirees. I sat for a minute doing a cost analysis. My options — run like a coward or make the best of it. I decided these people might make for an interesting blog post, so I stayed to see what might transpire.

My rowdy compatriots shouted for more rum punch while I tried to figure out how they could get any more drunk. Once we all had a plastic cup, one of them raised his punch aloft and called for a group toast. There was no turning back. I was one of them now. A hearty salud later and we were off to the races. A tantric yoga instructor from Mexico City started a get-acquainted drinking game. When it was your turn, you had to look at the group, chose someone, and from their appearance suggest something that might be true for them in real life. If you guessed correctly, they had to drink. If not, the drink went to you. I started to deeply regret my decision to stay up front. I watched quietly at first, hoping they would overlook me all together and the game would die out without my participation. No such luck. The ex-military guy next to me guessed I was a teacher. Nope. I looked around and saw a woman wearing a baseball cap with hibiscus flowers on it and guessed she had been to Hawaii. She took a drink. The game went on for a while, rum punch sloshing its way into our rapidly emptying cups over and over. One person guessed I was 42 and said I was too fit to be almost 50. I knew then I was among good people. Somewhere along the way, we stopped honoring the game play and talked amongst ourselves in small groups that ebbed and flowed as we each overheard and then pursued new topics with different people. And rum punch, being what it is, transformed us into quick friends.

Life on the net

By the time we got off the catamaran, we were all intoxicated. A few folks showed the early signs of what would become painful sunburns. We swayed our way onto the pier, arm in arm, holding each other up, before getting our bearings and stumbling our separate ways. I walked off as alone as I had arrived, imagining I looked lucid but knowing I probably did not. I doubted many of my fellow tour buddies would remember much about the trip because, while rum punch makes friends, it also blurs memories and they were drunk when the game began. For my own experience, though, I was sober enough that I will never forget that excursion. It was the day I learned sometimes it’s good to let loose and see what happens. Yes. The people I met were what I said. They were loud and borderline obnoxious. But they were also full of interesting stories and a shit ton of fun. I watched as other members of the tour alternately gave our net full of crazies a disapproving once over. I thought about how I could have chosen to sit with them and judge rather than join. Indeed, I have lived most of my life that way. On that trip back from Nevis, though, I realized that sometimes judges really miss out and I am finished missing out.

A friend reminded me last night that I have not posted a blog in a while. He was right. I haven’t. And it is weird when a writer stops writing. Writers have a reputation for not holding back, for both celebrating the good and for laying themselves bare in heart-wrenching detail with words. Sometimes the words launch themselves in rounds from an automatic rifle. Sometimes they come on the back of a desert tortoise. And, sometimes, the words lie in wait. They wait for clarity or resolution or time to heal or situational appropriateness. Sometimes they aren’t written for a period because it is not time for the truth to out. Sometimes they never make the light of day.

This morning, I saw this quote on the page of a fellow blogger.

You are here. However you imagine yourself to be, you are here. Imagine yourself as a body, you are here. Imagine yourself as God, you are here. Imagine yourself as worthless, superior, nothing at all, you are still here. My suggestion is that you stop all imagining, here. ― Gangaji

I have spent most of my life imagining (believing, really) I was crammed inside a box labeled Supposed. Inside this box, unable to wriggle into a different vantage point, I continually faced the false narrative of who I am supposed to be. Like Alex in A Clockwork Orange, inside that box I was made to view dark, horrific imagery until what I saw of myself made me sick. I began to accept what I saw on the inside of that box as the only Truth of me. I lived inside that box so long that I forgot who I once was on the outside.

A couple days ago, like a young child, I marked my half birthday. I am now six months from the big 5-0. I don’t know how I got this far, but I do know I don’t want to live the last bit of my life, however long or short that may be, cowering in the box I was stuffed into before I understood the air holes poked in the cardboard were not large enough to keep me from suffocation.

Recently, I have been working with a therapist to kick the sides of that box from within and weaken my corrugated cell. On Monday, I did my first session of EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy. I sat in the therapist’s office, following her fingers from left to right like a patient undergoing hypnosis while reimagining an incident that had a negative impact on my sense of self. A few hours after I left the office, I noticed the memory was no longer painful. It was simply something that happened. And the message I learned about myself on the basis of that incident had been replaced by something its polar opposite. Since Monday, I have been able to accept without question a truth about myself that had been waiting for me on the outside of my box all this time. We opened an air hole large enough for a breeze to enter and wide enough to allow me to see outside for the first time since my incarceration began. Outside, I can see hope.

I now believe there will be a time in the foreseeable future when I won’t be imagining myself as something negative and I won’t be fighting to imagine something positive in its place. Like I quote, I won’t have to imagine anything. I will simply be here. And being here will not only be enough, it will be everything. And I will go on to do the great things I imagined I could do if I ever busted out of that crappy prison box and left it like a discarded skin on the side of the road out of town, proof of my growth.